I imagine that most lovers feel this way, but when we make love I feel like we're the only lovers in the world, that there can't possibly be anyone else out there making love, connecting, feeling, and loving like we do. When we come together I think that we are the best, that this is the best it gets, and of course I know this isn't true, but it speaks to the passion and the love I feel for Scott that I feel this way. Naturally I always think that there are things I could do more of or better, positions my body isn't strong enough yet to sustain or enjoy, or that I would have the stamina to suck his cock longer and make him happier, be more self sacrificing, but I am always hungry and impatient and want to cut to the connecting, when if I were a French woman, (long story not worth the telling just now), I know I would take my time.
My sex drive has kind of fallen off the edge of this flat earth and I've been trying to persuade my gynecologist to give me hormones to remedy this. I don't care if I grow hair on my palms and between my breasts just so long as I want to Fuck my man every time I see him. But last night we were good, Scott was good, he was amazing. He's been working out, doing push ups and running, and it shows. He's strong, solid, hard and it makes him seem sexier to me. He was so good. I love him and sex brings this out in me, this tender, loving passion for him, which is probably the very reason why I avoid it.
One of the problems with sex for me is that I feel a little like Sleeping Beauty. The problems we have between us often seem insurmountable, and I don't want to live without him, so I think I kind of put myself in suspend mode. If I can't enjoy being at his place because it's so choked with smoke that the walls have become sticky and yellow, and a thick layer of dust has settled over all of his things and into every corner, if his sofa and bed sag so much it's impossible to sit or lay comfortably on them, if he is so dependent on having moving air circulating over his body that for him it's akin to sex, while for me it is like a thousand prickly electric needles boring into my skin and dry stinging eyes, if his bathroom is filthy and his carpets stink of mildew, if I hate the pictures he's put up of himself over his computer because I think he looks so much cooler than that, if his house feels stale, lonely and devoid of life, save for one fish, (and thank God for this one little fish), while my house is cluttered, impassable, loaded to it's two story rafters with pets, if every step you take in my home is likely to be a step into some wet animal effluence, if there is always the smell of animal shit and piss and there is a good chance that someone is going to come along and hork on you, if the only place to be is the filthy island of my bed, if you can't make love to your woman without worrying that someone will jump on your back and tear your skin to ribbons, or that there are a hundred pair of eyes watching you perform when you already have performance anxiety, if there is an overgrown, overindulged, selfish (but wonderful), man child who may come barging in to the room right when you are about to be as vulnerably primal as you can get, then so be it. I won't live without him so I won't pay attention to all that stands between us. I'll be Sleeping Beauty who will avoid his kiss so that I won't have to awaken too often and feel the lonely hurting sting of our separation when he inevitably leaves to return to his home away from mine.
I used to think that we'd be Woody and Mia, or Frida and Diego, even though living together was what we both craved, he'd live over there making his music, with all his fussy comfort seeking habits, his tics and neuroses, and I'd be over here with mine. If I couldn't live with his overgrown garden of herbal dependence and he couldn't live with my need to be mother earth, to invite two of every species into my sinking ark, well, then we'd build two separate houses and be like someone else, but as we've subsequently discovered Woody and Mia didn't exactly have the healthiest of relationships and neither did Frida and Diego.
Awwww Scotty called, I love him, he has the sexiest voice in all the world, and he's beautiful and handsome too, but you wouldn't know this from his pictures. He isn't as fair in photos as he is in person, and it's too bad, maybe as he continues to lose weight.
I hate that my eyes are going soft on me -- that everything close is falling out of focus when I've always been a macro kind of person. When I scuba dive I thrill to the big creatures -- the sharks and manta rays, but it's the coral, their lovely, tiny, colonies, their delicate individual blooms that get me, and things like nudibranch (I'm mad for nudibranch and sea slugs -- can't explain it but I could spend hours looking at them and talking about them,) and minuscule juvenile fish darting in and out of the coral heads that tug at my heart. I've always loved all things tiny and detailed, beads, minerals, rhinestones, sequins, complicated embroidery, bugs and ants, oh Lordy do I love to stare at a newly discovered bug in our garden, one little bug can brighten my entire day.
Not that I don't see the mountains, plains and vistas, but I do love the smallest things in nature, and to have to put on glasses to see them is hard on me -- reminds me that I'm dying when I've always pretended I could live here forever if I so chose. In my youthful arrogance, a youth that has lasted well beyond the boundaries of what could reasonably be defined as youth, I thought that having to wear reading glasses wouldn't happen to me -- that I would find another path and somehow stave it off. I would take some Sikh eye exercise class or do whatever it is that Meredith Baxter-Birney has done and get to keep my perfect vision. Not so, so not so, sigh and yet, as with all things relating to me, I'm of two minds on this; I've always thought that people who wear glasses look smart and sexy, as if hidden behind someone's demure glasses there lurked a secret passionate garden of fire. Despite this -- my trying to reframe things, (literally), by making them seem sexier, and my having bought more glasses than I can possibly use, (as usual), I hate having to put them on to see things -- hate having to locate some object to help me do this basic and beautiful thing that I've never taken for granted.
Whenever I played the game where you have to decide which one of your five senses you could keep if you had to give up all of the others, my preference went in the following order, sight/vision, hearing, speech, touch, smell, taste. Funny that for a compulsive eater I put taste last but it seems like of all of them it's the least important. I won't even go into a sixth sense and rate it's order of importance, I've already run off on enough tangents as it is when what I really wanted to talk about was sex, love, passion and dark, blood, and red lipstick smeared dreaming.
So last night I had this strange detailed dream, (to be completely honest my dreams are usually pretty strange and detailed), where I was in some crazed version of my house. It didn't have a roof so I could float above all of the various scenes going on and look down onto them. My mother was there and Victoria Gotti, the Mafia princess who has the new reality show coming out, had come over to visit. I wanted to impress her for some reason. I want her to see all of our friends, see all of my jewelry and think I am as cool as she is. She has cut off that ridiculously long blonde hair and it looks so much better so I tell her this and she tells me in turn that my hair looks like shit, that she doesn't like the new blonde streaks I've added to please my Mother. I agree with her.
Our gardener Tom is here and wants to borrow two dollars but I am busy taking care of things and talking to other people so he walks away out into the garden. I pull out a twenty and wave it at him telling him I'll be right there. He shouts something back at me right in front of my mother about my always giving ten times more than I should. Great, this is just the kind of thing I don't want someone saying in front of my Mother. She's already pissed off enough about this overly generous, "foolhardy" quality of mine. She worries I'll, "Piss away all of her money like Barbara Hutton." If only I were as wealthy as Barbara Hutton. If only I were Barbara Hutton, then I would give away half of my money and invest the rest in land and get to make love to Cary Grant. Well, whenever he wasn't dropping acid.
In the dream I am feeling so needy and sexual. Scott isn't here, and there is no one else to have sex with, so I just want to be alone with my favorite Hitachi Magic Wand, but it isn't working right and it's hard to find any privacy, men keep walking in on me. There are a few breaks in the cord where the wires are exposed and they keep zapping me when I touch them. I can't get it to work up to that perfect orgasm inducing speed. Girls if you don't have a Hitachi Magic Wand please do yourselves a favor, trust me on this, and get yourselves one, that pearl bunny is nice and cute and everything, but nothing will do it for you like the trusty old Magic Wand, I think every good mother ought to give one to her daughter. I need to find some electrical tape to repair it but all I can find is Scotch tape. I don't want to get electrocuted, especially since I place this right up against my vulva, so I unplug it from the wall and try to repair it.
We are all -- all of the people in this house, in this dream -- in some kind of play, and I am so unbelievably happy to be acting again. Someone playing the Vice President comes in and we all line up to greet him. There are secret service people everywhere. Al Pacino and another actor I adore come in, (and this is where it's going to start to get hinky and I'm afraid to share this with you but I'm a glutton for punishment so here goes), get on this bed in the center of the room and start having sex. Al is whooping, full of energy, thrilled to be alive and having sex with this other man. I am thrilled to be in the same room with him and start whooping too, letting out these primal, animalistic screams of joy at being alive again, of being an actor again. Al is going to fist fuck this guy. I'm a little surprised at this and just before I can see anything my vision of this scene, as if it were a movie camera, kind of moves up and cuts off the graphic interplay between them, making the scene more R rated than X, that's okay, I didn't really want to see this.
A man walks by me, an actor I vaguely recognize. It's Barry Bostwick. I grab him and rain fannish compliments all over him. It feels good to be touching him, he feels warm and solid, masculine and strong. "Oh I've loved you for years, since Rocky Horror. You gave my friend Wally his first big break when you let him understudy you in Penzance." He appreciates the compliments and in a kind of creepy lusty way makes a play for me that I don't entirely like but since I am so horny I go for.
We find a room and get on the bed. I am in and out of my body, looking down on the action and being in the action at the same time. Barry is freak nasty, (my favorite new borrowed expression), he's obviously had enough vanilla sex for a lifetime and wants something else. He gets out a tube of greasy red lipstick and starts to smear it all over me -- all over my breasts, belly and puss. When we rub our bodies together it gets all over him as well. Then he wants me to cut him. I take a razor blade and make a small, thin cut at the corner of his lips and then he does the same to me. It's weird and scary and thrilling, secret and dark and compelling, and somehow shameful and frightening. We are rolling around in lipstick and blood. I am finally having sex.
Later I am back in the communal living area and Rosa, Mom's housekeeper, comes in with her two daughters that have been detained by the INS, (this is really happening in real life but I haven't had time to tell you too much about it, I've been on the phone trying to find them for her, it's been a nightmare, she's a wreck, and even though she's been really awful to me, betrayed me, stolen from me, hurt me, I don't hold it against her daughters and typical Aries that I am, I always forgive but never forget), they are s beautiful and I am so happy to see them, to see that they are here safe with their Mother that I grab them and hang on to them and cry and cry. They are surprised that I am crying for them and they cry too.
Well, as usual I've taken up hours of my time writing this and I won't get to read journals like I'd planned to. How can I write like I do, lead my very full life, take care of my son, my partner, my aging mother, my two housekeepers and their families, all of our many pets, the people who live on my block, maintain the few friendships I'm able to sustain, take care of my home and garden, keep up my health and my son's health and read even just a small percentage of the seven hundred journals on my friends list? I always worry people will leave when I write about this and I don't want to lose you, lose the potentially deeper connection we can have when I find some way to keep up with your lives, to take you in and care for you in a more equal and sustained way.
If anyone leaves today it's more likely to be because of my frank descriptions of our sexuality, my animal filled house, or the blood and sex in my dreams, than the fact that I find it hard to get around to everyone's journal to say hello, and offer comments and love. When people ask me to add them, since I'm at my limit, I have to go to my friend's list and look for journals that have been deleted or people who have left so I can delete them myself and make room for someone new. When I do this I invariably find that a lot of people have left, and I know this is fine and normal, but I can't help but torture myself by clicking on their journals to see who it is who has defriended me. Sometimes I think, "Oh phew, what a creep, I'm glad that person left," but more often than not I'm disheartened at the loss of a potential good friend with whom I have so much in common if only I could have found them and embraced them in time. I've always been like this, drawn to the people who abandon and hurt me rather than the many people who are kind and loving, and it's a pity that the negative stands out for me and gets more of my scattered limited attention than the positive does. I am working so hard to improve this, you'll see, or I'll see. I think it's kind of a common human thing.
Sometimes I think I'm a masochist because I set these totally unfair, unrealistic situations/expections up in order to fail. I think I'm so used to being put down and tortured psychologically that in order to perpetuate this feeling I am so accustomed to, the feeling of being a fuck-up, I set myself up to fail to give myself a reason to dislike myself and clutter up my mind with negative self chatter. It keeps me from having to go out there and risk.
As a child -- when have I not been a child? -- I was the identified patient in our little family dynamic. It was my job to be the screw up that everyone could point to and say, "There, see, she's the reason why we're unhappy," and it might have worked had it not been for the fact that I was stellar, unique, overambitious, accomplished, and desperate for love and attention.
Mom and Dad, who I loved and worshipped desperately, could ignore their lack of intimacy, the emptiness that eventually led to their living in separate bedrooms as long as they could come together in a mutual condemnation of me. If I was the bad girl, the cruel, ungrateful, lucky to be adopted girl, then my mother was the unfortunate, self sacrificing victim and Daddy would have to get up off of the couch, put down the paper, turn off the ball game, come off the golf course or out of his room and pay attention to her, but unfortunately there was always this annoying problem of everyone coming up to them to tell them how special I was, how lucky they were to have me.
I think this always surprised my Father more than my Mother, I think he was so used to listening to Mom complain about me, so used to her vision of me that he'd given up trying to see me for himself, so that when somehow something would shake up his sedate little snow globe of a life, when someone would challenge his belief in my failings, he would actually awaken surprised to find that he had a gifted daughter and remain astonished and pleased, blinking in the sunlight of truth for a day or two, until he'd be beaten back into depressed submission, "Yes, I suppose she is a disappointment despite her potential and flair, after all we never did sign up for an actress, which is about as close to being a whore as you can get. What we wanted was a dutiful, submissive blonde sorority daughter, an athlete, someone who could play a good game of golf and look fit and tan in a short tennis skirt."
Ah well, that's enough self revelation for me, how about you? I'll tell you about the magazine shoot when I put up the pictures. I still have the Polaroids to scan but I loaded my digital shots onto the computer last night, now I just have to edit them. Mary Joe help? Where are you when I need you? Just kidding.
Raw Overwhelmed Hugs,